


Winter's Awakening

by JessieBlackwood



Series: Winterlight Mystrade [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Greg in a kilt, M/M, Scotland, Sex Outdoors, Sex in the Snow, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-03-29 06:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: Further adventures of Greg and Mycroft in Scotland.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WastingYourGum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/gifts).



> Here it is, Folks, my smutty sequel to Winterlight. Enjoy. Dedicated to the lovely wastingyourgum for those amazing manips of Greg in a kilt... Enjoy.

“Looks like the snow is melting, we’ll be free of it by week’s end.” Mycroft looked up at Greg’s words. The man was peering out of the window, looking at the sky. “Gonna be a good day today. I think I might be able to get the car out tomorrow. You want to have a drive out?”

“That means I could get home…” Mycroft left the statement hanging. He was almost gratified to see the disappointed look that flashed across Greg’s face. It went some way to dispelling his fears that this was temporary, that it was nothing more than a fling that both of them would forget when they returned home. _A Highland Fling,_ his mind supplied, rebellious to the serious nature of their discussion. He tried valiantly not to smile. They had enjoyed a wonderful week together, which in itself was worth smiling about. Mycroft had seemingly suffered no ill-effects from the accident, and they had enjoyed more amazing sex than either man had seen in months.

Greg blinked, swallowed and covered it well with a cough before he turned around. When he did, Mycroft was subjected to another of the man’s trademark grins, a wide warm smile. He had seen that smile at least once a day since he had arrived, more on occasion. He had also seen that face on waking every day for the last week. It wasn’t a sight he wanted to lose, but reality was kicking In. This particular smile was a cover. 

“You’re free to do what you want, Mycroft,” Greg said gently. “You should know that...but…”

“But?” Mycroft said hopefully.

“I’ve really enjoyed having you here,” he said sincerely. “I have the best part of another two weeks here and...well, it is my holiday so I was thinking of staying a bit longer. I...would really like it if...well, if you want to that is…” Greg cleared his throat again. 

“What, Gregory?”

“I wish you’d stay.” _There, I’ve said it. Mycroft must know how I feel, mustn’t he? How can he have missed it?_ Greg went to put the kettle on, not knowing what the man’s response would be. He had a high powered job, one that Greg could not imagine him leaving voluntarily for too long. 

“Gregory…”

“I know, sorry. Look, I know your job is important, Mycroft. You probably want to get back to check on things. I shouldn’t put pressure on you.”

“Gregory...I would like to stay.”

Greg pivoted to look at Mycroft. His smile was accepting but a little sad. “I understand. Queen and Country and all that. It’s nice that you want to, even if you can’t. I...Look, we can still have a day out tomorrow...My car will make it to Oban easily, and you do need to arrange to get yours collected and insurance assessed, hm? You can catch a train home from there if you want. You’d have to change at Glasgow, get a taxi between the two glasgow stations to pick up the London train, but it’s not hard. I’ve done it before, and the West Highland line is amazing...”

“No, Gregory...I meant...Yes, I do have to arrange things with regard to the car, but...I really _do_ want to stay, if you’ll have me. I...I should be mindful of the stresses of my job. I am not getting any younger, and Anthea is quite capable of taking my place. She is a rather discerning negotiator in her own right, and this... _break,_ has allowed me to think, about a lot of things, quite deeply in point of fact.” If Mycroft had thought the previous smile was blinding, this one was incandescent. 

“Wow, that's… Of course I'll have you, I said so. So what kind of things have you been thinking about?”

“I am considering taking semi-retirement, letting Anthea step in to the situations of...shall we say, _lesser_ difficulty, at least at first. I can orchestrate my departure on my own terms then. I shall of course remain as a consultant, and as advisor in situations that threaten National Security. For instance I sit in on Cobra meetings as a matter of course, as does Lady Smallwood, and I could continue with that. However, I would like it...if you would consider...the potential continuation of our relationship once we return to London.”

“You would?” 

“Yes, Gregory, I would. I...this has been…” He paused. “I am having difficulty in locating the correct words to describe what this means to me. You are... _everything,_ and I do mean everything, I could possibly wish for in a partner. We have worked together for...many years and I have given you far less than you deserve.”

“I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve,” Greg said with a quick smile. 

“That sounded like a quote,” Mycroft said.

“Christ, you and Sherlock, you’re no good on popular culture, are you? It’s a quote from Lord of the Rings, Bilbo says it to his guests during his Birthday party.”

Mycroft smiled at the memory. “I read that book as a boy. I had quite forgotten the passage. I do appreciate the sentiment. I know you half as well as I should like, and you do deserve more from me, Gregory. You have been unswervingly loyal to both myself and my brother over the years, with little return. A good friend.”

“Yeah, well, don’t think I don’t know why I managed to keep my job after Sherlock ‘died’, you know?” 

Mycroft smiled. “I played but a small role. I was, however, instrumental in having your boorish Superintendent reassigned to Liverpool, and the IOPC were told to drop the investigation against you and rule a verdict of no case to answer. It was as much for Sherlock as yourself. I knew he was alive, don’t forget. He had to have something to come back to. Please do not assign as much altruism to my actions as you obviously are doing. I had an ulterior motive.”

“Thanks for being honest though.”

“Well, if it is of any consolation, I was pleased that the knock-on effect where you were concerned was a positive one. You did not deserve censure for your involvement with my brother.”

“Thank you anyway,” Greg said, smile in place again. “Well, Mycroft, if we’re going to enjoy today, why don’t we head on out and you can see a bit more of the glen? I’d best walk Anders anyway, he’s got entirely too much energy not to start bothering us soon.”

“Very well, and cocoa when we return?”

“Remind me to buy more in Oban tomorrow, will you? I didn’t bank on hosting a cocoa addict.”

They walked down the track toward the viewpoint again, Anders running ahead, but Greg turned them right and over a style in the wall. Rather it was three projecting flat stones set into the wall’s surface like steps, with a wooden framework across the top to aid in getting over. Greg carried the dog and let him jump down from the top, but Mycroft found that getting down was harder for a human being. Following Greg also did nothing for Mycroft’s blood pressure as the kilt lifted a little as he clambered vigorously across and leapt to the ground. 

“Gregory, you are positively indecent!” A rich laugh replied to that. Mycroft jumped the last step, breathless and pink cheeked. “Kilts should be ruled illegal.”

“Yeah, well don’t try that again. They didn’t take to that too well the first time.” Greg had already set off across the heather, keeping in line with the trees as they climbed. Mycroft followed, admiring his rear. “Ms Sturgeon might have something to say about it,” he added. 

“I shall have you know Nicola is a perfectly lovely woman and talks a lot of sense,” Mycroft replied.

“Had tea with her too, hm?”

“On occasion, yes.” Greg shot him a look but said nothing more.

The snow was still quite thick, but manageable, and they could see tufts of heather poking through the snow as it receded. There had been no snow for the last few days with the promise that the lowlands were already clear. Mycroft was about to open his mouth when Greg stopped and held up a hand. He whistled low and Anders came to heel, sitting dutifully at Greg’s feet. He placed a finger to his lips and beckoned Mycroft closer. Greg leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. “Step carefully, try not to move quickly, and you might see more than you expected.” He lead the way into the woodland, making his way slowly toward a large fir on the periphery. He peered around it and grinned, leaning back out of sight. Anders positively vibrated with suppressed excitement but stayed quiet. Greg beckoned Mycroft forward and pointed around the tree. He bent down and held Anders still, holding his muzzle gently shut. The dog whined softly and Greg hushed him. Mycroft trod as carefully as he could, coming level with Greg and stopping as the man reached out and grasped his trouser leg to halt his progress. He leaned around the tree and his breath caught in his throat. Less than a hundred meters away were three quite magnificent red deer, impressive racks of antlers atop their heads, shaggy winter coats like manes around their necks. He glanced back to Greg to see the man grinning at him again. Carefully Mycroft leaned back into concealment, noticing Greg fiddling with his camera. The thing had a rather impressive telephoto lens on it. Greg repositioned himself carefully, and Mycroft took up dog duty, scratching Anders behind his ears while keeping firm hold on the collar. Greg leaned out, the camera positioned on its extending monopod for stability, and hit the shutter release. He had suppressed the sound of the shutter, so nothing spooked his quarry. He hit the button twice more, and then stood them down, clipping a lead on Anders and heading back out of the trees. 

“Phew,” Greg whistled as they exited. “That was...wow.” He scrolled through the results on his camera in triumph. “That was amazing. Look,” he said, offering the camera over. The shots were quite impressive, despite their photogenic subject. Mycroft had to admit the man had some talent for composition. 

“You are very good.”

“Opportunity,” Greg replied. “Luck mostly. Subjects like these do half the work for you. I just point and shoot, they already look good.”

“Yes, but may I compliment you on your composition,” Mycroft said. “Not all photography is just point and shoot. I would like a copy of one of those for my wall at home, if you would allow.”

“Allow? Of course, Mycroft.”

“I shall pay for a canvas I think.”

“Wow, that’s...a real compliment, coming from you. Thank you, Mycroft.”

“Not at all. Credit where credit is due.” They continued their walk across the moor tops, along the tree line, curving around the foothills and coming face to face with the view from the opposite direction, misty mountains rising in the distance. As they looked, Mycroft was aware that Greg had struck up a song. He turned, surprised, and smiled when he recognised it. He wasn’t as unfamiliar with popular culture as Greg thought. Even he recognised the opening bars to Misty Mountains from the Hobbit. 

“Far over, the misty mountains rise, 

leave us standing upon the heights,

What was before, we’ll see once more,

Is our kingdom, a distant light…” 

In the silence that fell, Mycroft smiled, gazing out across the snowy ground, drinking in the view. High overhead, something screeched. They both looked up and Greg wrestled with his camera again as a large dark bird wheeled very overhead.

“It’s an eagle,” Greg exclaimed. “A bloody eagle! We don’t see them often up here, they’re around the Glen tops to the west as a rule, but if you’re lucky…” He managed to get his camera on it, snapping happily before it flew off. 

_There is nothing like this_ , Mycroft thought, watching Greg gleefully photograph the epitome of freedom circling above them. _This feeling of utter contentment._ It was a very long time since he had experienced such peace. _When we return to London,_ he considered, _it will be together, in more ways than one_. This place made him want to make wild declarations of love and devotion to this amazing man beside him and yet he knew such actions were neither appropriately timed nor were they possible right now. _A year,_ he thought. _I will give it a year._ Mycroft was nothing if not patient, and he was not given to impulsiveness. They would return in a year, and he would propose, right here, on this hill, in view of mountains and trees and the bloody eagles and red deer if he had to. This was where his life began again, and right now, all he wanted to do was spend it with Greg…

They watched the bird fly off, and moved on again, Anders running on his extending lead ahead of them. Mycroft was struck by the light in Greg’s eyes. They were full of life and love of the place around him. Right then, he wanted to return home and shag him senseless, like they hadn’t been doing it all week. 

“Mycroft, when we go to Oban tomorrow, would you agree to see my doctor?”

“Pardon?”

“I have a doctor in Oban, Doctor Findlay. Don’t laugh. Poor guy still gets jokes from the older members of his practice. I’d just like you to see a medical professional just to make sure you’ve not had any ill effects from the crash, that’s all. It’s sense. I can call from the cottage when we get back, see if I can get you in. It’s a proper cottage hospital, got a minor injuries unit, and x-ray facilities. I’m just concerned about your neck, that’s all.”

Mycroft was about to protest but the concern in Greg’s eyes warmed him inside. Nobody had looked at him like that for so long. “Very well, Gregory. I shall agree, if only to set your mind at rest.”

“I...thank you, Mycroft…” Greg smiled again, and Mycroft found he would go a long, long way to make the man smile. Agreeing to see a doctor was not such a bad idea. It would take a short while to put Gregory’s mind at ease, and Mycroft found he very much wanted that too.

“Shall we turn for home? I find I am a little peckish.”

“Yeah, okay. Got some good pictures today anyway.” Greg turned around and they headed back the way they had come, with a slight deviation through the woodland, on a track between the tall straight trunks. “This is a shortcut,” Greg said, “intersects with the other path further down.” The trees closed in and the light dimmed. Their footfalls were muffled by billions of pine needles underfoot. In every direction tall brown trunks stretched into the distance, evergreen boughs interlaced, a dusting of snow here and there but not much had penetrated so far into the woodland. Greg stopped and ordered Anders to sit. Silence settled around them.The feel of the wind on their faces had disappeared, although it rushed in the treetops above. Their eyes met. Suddenly, Greg found himself pressed against a tree trunk and thoroughly kissed. Mycroft let his hands roam, and a wicked gleam came into his eyes. He stripped his gloves off, then sank slowly to his knees, warm hands sliding up Greg’s thighs under his kilt hem. Greg had already realised what he was about to do, and his breath hitched in anticipation. Mycroft leaned close, flipped the kilt up and was rewarded by Greg’s half-hard length in front of his eyes. 

“Someone might…”

“Pish, Gregory. Do you really think anybody will be abroad today?” Greg shook his head, and thumped it back against the tree trunk as Mycroft took him into his mouth in one smooth move. Not like he hadn’t done that before, of course. In point of fact they had done so to each other quite a lot during the last week, but there was nothing to beat the wet heat of Mycroft’s mouth around his aching prick while the rough bark of the tree made itself known behind his head and the cold air raised the hairs on his exposed thighs. Mycroft’s elegant fingers curled around his balls and tugged firmly down. Greg gasped and writhed, the feel of being exposed and in the open doing unspeakable things for his libido. He had completely forgotten about Anders. The dog whined and Greg looked over, seeing him watching the two men curiously, head on one side. He had been carefully shut out of the bedroom over the last week because Greg felt it was rather off putting being watched. It put him off his stride.

“My...Mycroft...you’re turning my dog into a voyeur…”

Mycroft glanced over and chuckled around Greg’s cock. He pulled off and looked up. “Is he putting you off? I rather thought he was enjoying it…” He received a swat to the top of his head, which made him laugh the harder. “Anders, turn your back,” Mycroft ordered. He was puzzled when Greg’s legs nearly collapsed with his laughter. 

“What on earth is wrong, Gregory?”

“Nothing, just...oh, God...Sherlock once told Anderson to do that…”

“Anderson?”

“My forensics guy. That’s why I named the dog Anders. After him. Sherlock once told me he wasn’t my sniffer dog, and I said of course not, Anderson was my sniffer dog, so when I got this guy, I had to call him after my sniffer dog, you see? And he’s Norwegian, so his name is the nearest Norwegian name to Anderson.” 

Mycroft smiled at the humour. “Would you rather we continue this at home?”

“Actually, come on. I’ve got an idea.” Greg shook his clothing into place again and grabbed Mycroft, hauling him to his feet. They set off quickly, and Greg lead them back to the cottage.

Once they arrived, Greg let them in and offloaded his camera and backpack onto the living room table, then went about filling Ander’s food bowl in front of the Aga. “No, don’t take your coat off, we’re not staying…” he instructed, making sure the water bowl was filled as well.

Mycroft paused in divesting himself of his coat and waited while Greg had finished feeding the dog. “I gather you have a plan?”

“Come on, he’ll be happy here for a short while at least. You and me have unfinished business.” Greg shut the door on the dog and locked it, then lead Mycroft across the road and into the woodland opposite the cottage. There was a track that lead into the trees away from the house, meandering through the woodland until the cottage was quickly lost from sight.

“There, not too far away from the house, but far enough that we are completely alone. So, Mycroft…” Greg walked backwards slowly, eyeing his lover striding toward him. “What you were doing was...well, there are no words for how good it felt. Do you..um...feel able to continue?”

“Of course, Gregory.” Mycroft stalked up close. “No voyeuristic dogs to put you off this time. Although,” he paused. “One has to be careful.” He pivoted round, observing a complete 360 of the area, but the forest was silent around them, save the wind in the branches above. “We are alone, Gregory.” Mycroft leaned forward, lips ghosting across an ear. “Do you trust me?” he breathed, softly. 

“You know I do,” Greg said, voice rough with arousal. 

“That might be foolish…” Mycroft murmured, walking him back until his back hit another tree. “I am dangerous, Gregory. I could ruin you…” 

“Let me be the judge of that,” Greg said breathlessly. He licked his lips. “You can ruin me as much as you God damn please, just get that filthy mouth of yours around my cock.”

He watched as Mycroft once again slid slowly to his knees in front of him and slid his hands up Greg’s thighs under his kilt. If the man knew nothing else, he knew how to build the tension. 

This time anticipation had made Greg harder for him, and the resulting gasp as Mycroft wrapped his tongue around the head and slid it over the silky flesh was encouraging. He felt Greg’s full body shudder under his hands. The man's blunt fingers slid into Mycroft's hair and tightened, anchoring the pair of them. Greg braced against the tree, head thudding back against the bark again as Mycroft began expertly to suck him off. Those fingers wrapped around his balls and tugged firmly down. Greg groaned aloud at the sensation. He felt a finger slide along his perineum and press gently. He squirmed at the sensation, and then the fingers gripped his balls again and squeezed, eliciting another filthy moan. He was worked expertly to completion, between his balls being taken firmly in hand and the hot wet mouth around his prick, it was not long before he felt the pleasure coiling tight in his guts, begging for release. The only warning Mycroft received was a slightly painful tightening of the fingers in his hair which sent shivers across his skull and down his spine. He sucked, hard, taking Greg deeper as the man’s hips jerked under Mycroft’s hand. Greg came, hard, shooting his load down Mycroft’s throat with a long drawn-out groan of pleasure. His legs shaking, aftershocks fizzing through his skin, Greg allowed the tree, and Mycroft, to keep him upright while he came down from the endorphin high. 

“Sh...shit,” he panted, chest heaving. “That...that was...amazing.” Mycroft smiled, serenely, and licked his lips, like a cat that had gotten to the cream. 

“The pleasure, Gregory, was all mine, as always.”

“Jesus, we’d best get back. Don’t want the dog to think he’s been abandoned. He’ll savage your socks in revenge.”

Mycroft chuckled. “He’d better not. I’ll withhold his favourite kibble…”

“Oh, that’s cruel.” 

“Better that than to allow the savaging of my socks to go unavenged…”


	2. What Next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys' time in Scotland is coming to an end. They ponder what awaits them when they return to reality...

The cottage was quiet when they returned, and they found Mycroft’s socks intact and Anders asleep in front of the Aga. Greg fired up the wood burner again, and made them cocoa, and they sat for a while by the fire, allowing the warmth to soak into their bones.

“Mycroft,” Greg said presently.

“Gregory? What concerns you?”

“Just thinking really.”

“Oh? Good thoughts, one hopes.”

“One would be correct,” Greg replied, voice posh. 

“Would you care to share, or are you going to keep me in anticipation a while longer?”

Greg chuckled. “All I was thinking was, I’m getting used to this, you and me together. I know you’ve expressed a...well...a desire to continue this when we get back, which I want as well. Now I know it’s probably too soon to move in together, but I just...well, it sounds sappy, but...I really love waking up to you in the morning. Seeing your face on the pillow. Watching you wake up.” 

“You are a romantic at heart, are you not, Gregory?” 

“Yeah, well, life’s too short. When you find something you want, you need to go for it, and if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Not getting any younger here, and I would really like us to make the most of the time we have together, however long that might be. I want to share it with you.”

“Gregory...are you suggesting…something more...well, permanent?” Mycroft looked at him warily. 

“I guess, yes, in the long run. If this works out well. It’s too soon to tell yet though, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, Gregory, I do agree. We should take things as they come, one day at a time. To see how we fit together.”

Greg smiled and nodded. “Baby steps, yeah? So yes, I would like to keep seeing you, but I probably need more thinking room.”

“Time to adjust?”

“Yeah, you could put it like that. Only saying that I already know I want your head on the pillow next to mine on a more permanent basis.” Greg grinned. “I feel like a giddy teenager,” he confessed. “This is...amazing, really. You make me feel amazing, but we have to return to work and factor that into our lives together, and I think we need time to get our heads around it. If we didn’t try though, then we’d regret it, wouldn’t we?”

“True enough. I would deeply regret it if we were to curtail our association and I am not about to forgo the chance of some happiness.” Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I would be prepared to give you your own key to my front door, should you wish it.”

“Your front door key?”

“Yes, Gregory. That will allow you to come and go as you please. My flat does have other security measures, and is doubtless more secure than yours, but I can add your details to the admittedly very short list of people who are allowed access and give you the passcodes to the other doors. Does that meet with your approval? Then we can give ourselves the time and space to see if we are truly compatible while still being together.” 

“Wow, I don’t know what to say, other than if you give me a key, I should also give you one of mine.”

“Only if you feel comfortable with it.”

“Course I do, I trust you. You obviously trust me, so why not? Although my flat is small and crappy. Honestly, even I don’t like it, so God knows why you would.”

“It will have you in it, Gregory. That is all the reason I need.”

Greg stared at Mycroft, wondering not for the first time how he had landed himself such a lovely man. He smiled, moved by the sentiment. “Love you, Gorgeous.”

“I Love you too, Rogue.”

“Come to bed?” Greg said impulsively.

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“When has that stopped you? We’ve not exactly got a packed schedule,” Greg said, quirking an eyebrow. “Besides, I owe you.” 

“Hm, yes, so you do...I wonder how on earth you can repay me?” Mycroft stood, holding a hand out. Greg took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He immediately dragged Mycroft with him to the bedroom, and kicked the door shut behind them. No sooner was it shut, than Greg had taken off his jumper and t-shirt and was down to his kilt again. 

“I think I may have an idea, Mr Holmes.”

“Don’t let me stop you then, Mr Lestrade.” Mycroft’s eyes raked across Greg’s semi-naked form, mouth watering at the sight. He supposed it helped that he knew what the kilt hid.

Moments later Mycroft found himself spun to face the bed. “Trousers down,” Greg ordered, softly. Mycroft fumbled the buckle, but managed to open his fly, the whisper of the zip descending sounding loud in the silent room. Mycroft let his trousers fall. Greg shivered. “Boxers too,” he said, voice rough and gravelly. He watched Mycroft oblige. “Now, look at that,” he murmured, stroking his hands across Mycroft’s backside. “That is nice.” Greg’s hand roamed along Mycroft’s back under his shirt. Greg leaned over and planted a soft kiss at the base of Mycroft’s spine, fingers gently kneading his arse. “You know, I’m having fantasies about fucking you over your Whitehall desk while some foreign envoy is kept waiting in the room next door…”

Mycroft’s eyes slid closed on the thought. “Remind me to suggest that again, once we’re home. I give you carte blanche to interrupt my next meeting with the Home Secretary in order to drag me through to another room and bugger me senseless across my desk, on the pretext of giving me urgent information concerning a matter of security.”

“I would want to see his face when we got back through the door, all flushed and sweaty…”

“Well, some matters are more...taxing than others,” Mycroft suggested with a chuckle, whereupon Greg kissed him, a sensuous melding of lips and tongue, tasting and exploring while hands roamed and cupped and squeezed and stroked. Mycroft melted under Greg’s touch. 

“Gregory...When we are home…”

“Yeah?”

“I meant it when I asked you if you would wear your kilt...occasionally?”

Greg’s smile was warm, broad and happy. “Mycroft, your pleasure is my pleasure.” 

**000000000000**

Greg couldn’t help noticing Mycroft’s slight squirming on the passenger seat of the car the following day. “Did I go too hard on you yesterday?” he said, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

“On the contrary, Gregory. I am finding it only slightly uncomfortable, but it serves to remind me of a wonderful _session_ , as it were. You can be very masterful…”

“Yeah, well, hopefully not too masterful. You were...amazing. Gorgeous.”

Mycroft basked in the praise. Gregory had been truly glorious and the man had proven himself over and over to have Mycroft’s care and comfort in mind. He was struck by how easy it was to trust Greg Lestrade, to relax around him. Just thoughts of heading out on the horses tomorrow was making Mycroft hard. 

“Will you...wear your kilt tomorrow?”

“Do I detect a serious kilt kink developing here?” Mycroft blushed a bit, and Greg chuckled. 

“Well, they’re so...convenient,” Mycroft murmured in his defence. “A kilt makes you very accessible.”

“Sorry, love, was only teasing you, but no matter how accessible they make me, I don’t think I’ll be wearing one when I’m on the back of a horse. Chaffs a bit, and I’ve not been riding for a hell of a long time. Speaking of which, we will need to take it easy. No long distances, so I suggest we don’t go out of the glen, and even though the snow is melting, it’s still pretty deep in places, so we need to watch where we go. We should be able to get down the roads without a problem but we’d best stick to recognised tracks. Can’t risk the horses getting hurt by taking a misstep. From Jim and Moira’s, it’s not too far to the end of the glen and the woodland. Nice and quiet…” he left the statement hanging. 

“Oh, good,” Mycroft murmured. 

“There’s a shelter, of sorts, top end of the loch. Looks down the glen. It’s a bit open but not frequented much, if you get my drift…” Greg grinned. “Only if you’re comfortable with the great outdoors though. I mean, I know what we got up to before but...that was a bit impromptu. So if you change your mind, please tell me. I won’t mind, Mycroft. My priority is you.” 

Mycroft smiled softly. “I believe you,” he said. “You are a surprisingly thoughtful man, Gregory.”

“Tell me that when you’ve learned some of my bad habits.” 

Mycroft smiled fondly. “We all have bad habits, Gregory. I am not immune.” He rolled his head away to gaze out of the car window at the countryside passing by. “This really is a beautiful land,” he murmured appreciatively.

Greg glanced across at him. “Sure is,” he replied. “Always loved it round here. Big skies, vast tracts of moor and mountain, forest….”

“About as far from large conurbations as one can get in this country.”

“Yeah, well, Oban is the nearest travel hub really. It’s not a big place by any means but you can catch a ferry to the Islands, provided the weather is okay, or you can get a train, either north or south. Even a plane, if you want.”

“A plane?”

“There’s a small airport.” 

“Somehow, for somewhere in the back of beyond, it is surprisingly connected with the rest of the world.”

“Back of beyond, perhaps but not backward, so take care what you say…”

Oban _was_ a lovely town, Mycroft had to admit. It wasn’t far from Gregory’s home, but it was a busy place. At this time of year it was obvious there were not many tourists, but the shops were open and the weather was something those same locals dealt with every year and took in their stride. Mycroft trailed Greg as he did his shopping, pausing at the grocers to buy more cocoa and fresh vegetables, but wondered what he was about when he headed for an outdoor supplies shop. The interior was warm and Greg hailed the man behind the counter cheerfully.

“Morning, Robbie,” he said. The ruddy-faced man with dark wiry hair looked up and grinned.

“Mornin’, laddy. What can I do fer ye this mornin’?”

“Riding boots, Rob. Left mine back in the Smoke.” The man nodded and went into the back of the shop, bringing a couple of boxes back with him. 

“Knowin’ ye, ye’ll want ‘em for walkin’ as well?”

“Yes, Rob. Thanks.”

“Here ye are then, size ten, wasn’t it?”

“You’ve got a good memory, Rob.” 

“There’s a choice for ye, see what you think.” 

“Have you got any size nines? Narrower foot than mine.”

“Aye, I’ll see what I have.” 

Greg wrestled his boot off and slid the new one on, while Mycroft watched him. “Gregory,” Mycroft said. “Size nine fits me, not you.”

“I know. You’ll need a pair too. I imagine you didn’t anticipate riding as an activity, and walking boots are often too wide for the stirrups.”

“Gregory, I cannot sanction…”

“You don’t need to. I’m paying. I invited you. When’s your birthday?”

“May 23rd…”

“Well then, it’s either a very late, or very early, birthday present.”

“You are impossible.”

“Aye, laddie, I would agree wi’ ye.” Rob came back with the fruits of his search. “This one’s a lost cause though, ye ken? Been that way for as long as he’s been comin’ here.” The man grinned at Mycroft and handed over three boxes, this time. Mycroft sat down on the only other available chair, a rickety bent cane thing, and removed his left boot. 

The boots Greg chose were sturdy and suitably rugged-looking, designed to be narrow enough to access a stirrup and rugged enough to make mucking out easier. Mycroft on the other hand went for a narrower style. He also enquired about jodhpurs, but the only thing Rob had in stock was a pair of narrow moleskin trousers. However, they fit well, and the boots looked fine, and Mycroft insisted he put them all on his card. “Because I intruded on you, not the other way about, and you are kindness itself, Gregory. Stop complaining.” 

“Mycroft, you didn’t have to. Really.”

“Hush, Gregory. I am merely facilitating a better experience for us both. Riding is a pestiferous vexation unless suitably clad, and I for one am not about to go unless absolutely correctly attired.” 

“Okay then, come on. We’ll put this stuff in the car and then I’m taking you somewhere you’ll appreciate.”

“The Oban Distillery?” 

“Yes. You enjoy single malt, no? This is one of the oldest sources in Scotland,” Greg said, happily. “I need a new bottle anyway. They do tours. How about it? We are on holiday, after all.”

“Sounds sublime,” Mycroft offered, dutifully following Greg inside. 

They were a little more relaxed when they left, having taste-tested a few different whiskies to discover which were their prefered flavours (Cardhu for Greg, Mortlach for Mycroft). Greg was careful not to go over the limit, it wouldn’t do for the local constabulary to haul him in for drink driving. However, they left armed with a few bottles from the distillery’s extensive supplies, one of which Greg was looking forward to sampling more extensively when they arrived home. Mycroft had even placed a regular order to be sent to his London abode which pleased him mightily. 

On leaving the distillery, Greg did not immediately drive them home. He turned the car down a side road and pulled up alongside a pleasant building that looked as though it had been built somewhere in the 1920s. A brass plaque advertised _Doctor’s Surgery_ in worn but brightly polished lettering. 

“You agreed to see my doctor,” Greg reminded him. “I called the other day, made an appointment for you. Rory agreed to see you on short notice, considering the circumstances.”

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten…Do you really think there is a need? After all, I do not seem to be suffering ill-effects.”

“There’s every reason. Quite apart from the fact that you promised, I’m not a medical professional and I’d rather someone qualified signed you off. If he feels the need to refer you, Lorn and Islands Hospital is just up the road.”

“But I feel fine, Gregory…”

“Humour me, Mycroft, please? I wouldn’t want you to suffer anything in the long term because I’d missed it… Morning, Moira, how are you?” The receptionist looked up and smiled.

“Greg Lestrade, as I live and breath. How are you, man?” They hugged across the desk and Moira looked him up and down. 

“I’m fine, Moira…”

“Then what on earth are you doing here, hm?”

“My...um...my friend, Mr Holmes, here. I called yesterday, made an appointment. Rory said he’d fit him in. Mr Holmes had a bit of a prang in the car, on his way here. Wanted Rory to look him over, just to make sure he’s okay.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Just tak’ a seat then, dears, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Mr Holmes, welcome. I’m Rory Findlay.” The man walking toward them was similar in age to Greg, hair turning grey above his ears, lean frame clad in tweeds, angular face a home to dancing blue eyes. 

“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” Mycroft said, genially. 

“Not a problem. Greg told me about your little accident. May I invite ye into my consulting room and we’ll get this business over wi’.” Mycroft made a move to follow but Greg took a seat on one of the waiting room chairs.

“You’re not coming?” Mycroft asked, trying to keep the pleading note from his voice.

“I wasn’t assuming, no,” Greg replied. “I was under the impression that doctor’s surgeries were confidential places.”

“I dinnae mind,” Rory reassured them, “if Mr Holmes agrees, you can come wi’ him.”

Greg’s questioning gaze met Mycroft’s. Responding to what he saw in the grey eyes, he got to his feet, silently following the two men into the room. Rory closed the door on them.

“Tak’ a seat then, Mr Holmes,” the doctor invited. “Greg, you can sit over by the window.” Greg sat, keeping quiet, watching as Rory turned his scrutiny on his patient. 

“So, tell me about what happened? You hit a tree, Greg tells me.”

“I did, yes. Lost my way in the snow and the dark, I hit something, the car jumped, the wheel was tugged out of my hands and next thing I knew, it had rammed a tree. The airbag blew and then...my memory is hazy, I’m afraid. Greg tells me he found me unconscious, in the snow, not far away so I must have got out, somehow…Really, I feel fine. I agreed to see you to put his mind at rest. I feel a bit of a fraud, taking up your valuable time…”

“I believe Greg is doubting his own excellent first aid skills, wants me to cast my professional eye over ye, in case he missed anything.”

“I believe so, yes, although would I not have already shown symptoms before this, had anything been drastically wrong?”

“Quite probably but I dinnae consider it wasting my time, so don’t fret. A few tests would nay come amiss, so…” Rory spent the next half hour on exhaustive tests and a physical examination to check for any damage, hidden or otherwise, on his patient. He performed blood pressure, temperature, balance and grip tests, listened to his patient’s heart and lungs, asked numerous questions concerning the nature of the crash; what Greg had noticed about Mycroft in the initial moments after finding him, what he’d seen over the first twenty four hours after the crash, not to mention how Mycroft was feeling and if he had any discomfort anywhere since his accident. Mycroft was honest in his answers, reassured by Greg’s presence and support. He hated doctor’s appointments as a rule, but Rory was thorough and kind, good humoured too, and finally pronounced him as fit as he could be under the circumstances.

“I cannae find anything to worry about, Mr Holmes, truly. I’m happy to refer you to the hospital for a scan if you’d like added reassurance but, truthfully, I tend to agree with Greg’s assessment, there’s nothing showing up in either your vitals or your responses that give me cause for alarm. Go home, enjoy the rest of your holiday, tak’ things easily, and I’ll gi’ you the same advice I’d give anyone. if you do spot anything unusual, get back in touch immediately, ye ken, or if you’re back home, speak to your own doctor. Nice to see you both,” Rory shook Mycroft’s hand.

“Thank you, doctor. I do appreciate it.”

“A pleasure. Greg, look after your guest, make sure he does nae exert himself. Good to see you again. We should go fishing again some time. When are you back?”

“No idea, Rory. I was figuring some time after Easter. End of April maybe?”

“Aye, well, let me know when. That loch of yours is calling.”

Greg grinned. “You have an open invite, Rory. I’ll talk to Jim, make sure he knows. Come any time, you don’t have to wait for me.”

“Thank ye, laddy. I might just tak’ you up on that. Safe journey, Gentlemen.”

“You are well thought about, up here, are you not?”

“Never really considered, I guess, but...I hope I am.”

“You are, you can see by how folk greet you. They are genuinely happy to see you.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of them knew my folks, some are maybe even distantly related to me.”

“That does not necessarily mean they will accept the prodigal son. However, in your case, they seem to have done just that.”

Greg smiled thoughtfully. He was quiet most of the rest of the way back to the cottage. 

000000000000

Mycroft lay in bed on their last night at the cottage, looking back on what had turned out to be something of an epiphany. He had fled north to escape, and found a refuge, but not in the way he had anticipated. Who knew what forces were at work, the fates flinging them together as they had. Factors beyond his understanding or control had been at work, but far from being unsettled, Mycroft chose to accept what he couldn’t influence. No use denying it. Logic dictated that the universe was rarely so lazy. Whatever else one could take from this, there was no denying that he had been rescued by Gregory Lestrade, in Scotland, and that they had both been honest with each other and learned of their mutual attraction, and acted upon it. The circumstances that had brought them to that were...maybe unfathomable but the fact remained that all of that _had_ happened. To him. However improbable… 

The rest of their holiday had been...well nigh perfect, and he was loath to admit the fact. He could not envision that it would continue that way once they returned home and Mycroft was reluctant to face going back to the mundane. There were too many variables to factor in, too many probabilities, various known influences— _known knowns, as it were,_ he thought, and allowed himself a small smile—to make their path anything but smooth. 

Their outing on horseback had been beyond words. Gregory was truly magnificent on a horse. Mycroft had managed one or two photos of his own, something to comfort himself with when reality inevitably caught up with them and swept them apart again. One was destined for his desk, one for his computer wallpaper. Gregory’s photo of the red deer was also destined to take pride of place as a canvas on his study wall at home. 

Mycroft desperately tried not to overthink things, not to look too far ahead or wish for too much, but it was hard not to where Greg Lestrade was concerned. The man was so patient, for God’s sake, and kind, compassionate and caring too, a man of honour, which was rare as hens teeth these days, Mycroft considered. No, whatever else he may have expected, bagging himself a decent man had not been high on Mycroft’s list of desired outcomes, but that was exactly what he had done, bagged a decent, kind, loving man who with any luck, might just find Mycroft interesting enough to want to stick around. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following, reading and apologies for such a long time to finish off. There will be one other chapter to this, an epilogue of sorts.


	3. Winter's Partnership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end, folks. Hope you enjoy.

“There we go,” Greg said, arms full with their boxes of supplies. He nudged the car door shut with his hip and took a deep breath of the clean Scottish air. “Ah,” he sighed. “That’s good.” On the other side of the car, Mycroft copied him, drawing a deep lungful and exhaling gustily. “Nice to get London out of your lungs occasionally,” Greg added, grinning.

“It’s just nice to get out of London,” Mycroft agreed, swinging his laptop bag over his shoulder and hefting his suitcase from the backseat. He followed Greg to the door of the cottage, an emotional weight settling on rather than lifting from his shoulders as he did so. It was a full year since he had crashed his car at the top of the lane leading to Greg’s cottage. He wondered at how fate had thrown them together. That past year had been.. _.interesting_. 

Looking back, Mycroft considered that very little of it had been easy. The two of them had danced around each other for a while, Greg processing his feelings for the elder Holmes, while trying to keep the younger one from deducing what was going on. The last thing Greg wanted was for the news of their relationship to get out before they were both ready. Greg had been very vocal on the subject, despite Mycroft finding that he wasn’t as bothered by the prospect as he might have expected. Of course, Sherlock knew something was different, but post-Sherrinford he had been more circumspect, at least with regard to his brother. It surprised Mycroft a little that his brother made no move to vocally deduce either Greg or himself on their return, choosing instead to continue on as before, working on the occasional case, while simultaneously parenting Rosie and finding his feet with John. If he knew what was going on, he chose to keep it to himself. That did not make Mycroft any the less wary, because where his brother was concerned, anything might change at any time. 

To begin with Greg and Mycroft had attempted to keep their distance, giving each other space. They had managed occasional dinners, both men under no illusions that their odd working hours would conspire to make things difficult. Of course they were going to have to cancel on occasion but Mycroft had been honestly surprised at just how many times they were forced to rearrange their engagements because of work commitments. Mycroft knew his partner was taking on more duties. Greg’s name had come up for promotion to Chief Inspector, so Mycroft found he couldn’t really object. It was his fault after all. He had met the Police Commissioner at a reception that Easter, and happened to mention the oversight. In Mycroft’s opinion Gregory was long overdue for promotion, at least in part because of Sherlock’s involvement. Mycroft wanted to correct that for his partner. So he held his peace on the subject of missing dates. They had both known that their work was likely to have a higher than average chance of interfering in their relationship before they took their first steps on this new path together. If it became frustrating at times, well, that was to be expected. They exchanged front door keys as they had promised, and came and went in each other’s lives as much as they could.

Six months ago, Greg had surprised Mycroft by being the one to propose that they move in together. Mycroft had agreed quickly, having anticipated that this was their way forward. Missing dinners, rescheduling lunch dates, being late for theatre dates, it wouldn’t matter if they could be in each other’s company for the rest of the time, but Mycroft had realised long before Greg that the man would come to it in his own time and could not be rushed into anything. It had still proved to be a surprise when Greg finally came to the decision though. Waking up together, cuddling, making love, having breakfast… _All sickeningly idyllic,_ Mycroft thought with a smile. _All very fluffy and domestic… and perfect too, in its own way._

However, it had not been a walk in the park. Mycroft had found himself getting irritated with Greg’s frankly sloppy living habits, and Greg had got annoyed with Mycroft’s rigidly house proud ways. After one or two _robust discussions_ , in Mycroft’s terminology, both men had done their best to accommodate the other. Mycroft quickly realised Greg hated arguing with him, deducing quickly that their exchanges reminded Greg all too easily of the rows he and his wife used to have, but despite that, Greg would vigorously defend his point of view if pressed. If Greg noticed the strategically placed magazines, left on the couch instead of being put back in the magazine rack, he was careful not to say anything, but he had noticed, and what’s more, Mycroft knew he had. In return, Mycroft had noted that Greg had tried to remember to put his laundry in the hamper and not leave his dirty underwear on the bedroom or bathroom floors. 

So here they were, one year on from that fateful meeting in the Scottish Highlands. Mycroft shouldered his way into the living room of the cottage, scolding Anders who dashed between his feet. The dog was like his owner; cheeky, adorable, and roguish. Having a dog in the house had been a little odd at first, but Mycroft found himself getting used to the small presence rather quickly. Anders often diffused the tension between the two men with his antics, perhaps without meaning to, but it sometimes seemed he knew when they were at odds with each other. The dog was a comfort, and Mycroft had got used to having him around. Anders now had a covered run in the garden behind Mycroft’s house, with a kennel at one end for shelter, in which he spent his days while the two men were at work. Mycroft had made sure that the kennel was heated during the winter months which made for very plush accommodation, but he employed someone to go feed and check on the dog through the day anyway, and everyone remained safe and happy. 

_So here we are,_ he thought, watching his love light the wood burner, getting a blaze going with which to heat the place through. Snow was forecast but not for a few days, and they had the whole month off. Walking, photography (Mycroft’s Christmas present to Greg had been a new digital SLR camera), and possibly more horse riding was on the agenda (they had been certain to pack their riding gear this time), as was seeing Greg in his kilt again. A little later, Mycroft smiled as Greg came out of the bedroom, clad in his thick cable knit jumper and utility kilt, brazenly showing off his knees again. 

“Going by the look on your face, I’m not going to be dressed like this for long, hm?” Greg grinned. 

“I will savour the moment,” Mycroft replied. “A fine view such as this requires at least a few moments of contemplation.” Greg laughed and went to light the aga. 

Mycroft disappeared into the bedroom to unpack leaving Greg to sort out their supplies. He took out his thick burgundy fleece robe, one of his Christmas presents from Greg. The thin silk one he had packed a year ago, when he had been aiming to spend time in his parents’ centrally heated Scottish property was certainly no use here. The two men had planned to come back to the cottage months ago, planning to spend their anniversary there. It was a few days hence, but Mycroft did not doubt they would find activities to occupy themselves. He tried hard to get his mind out of the gutter where ‘activities’ were concerned, but it was difficult, considering Gregory wasted no time in changing into his kilt. Mycroft paused in his thoughts, hand coming to rest on his case, restless fingers drumming a tattoo on the top. He had a thing to do, a plan of action, but he was uncertain how to proceed. 

Mycroft had brought his artists’ sketching pad, paints and pens. He planned to do some sketches of the area if the weather held, and Greg was still working on his book, allowing Mycroft to read it and be his editor. 

“What do you fancy for dinner, love?” Greg called, breaking into his thought processes. 

“Did you bring that steak and ale pie?” Mycroft asked.

“Yup. You want that? Fluffy mash and peas to go with it?”

“Sounds divine.”

“Bloody Hell, it’s a pie and pea supper, Myc. We turning into a pub?”

“I should hope not. That would imply opening our doors to all and sundry. Pardon me if I prefer our holiday to be rather more private. So let this be an exclusive pub, darling, with two patrons only.” 

Greg grinned. “Suits me.” He paused. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, my dear. Why should it not be?”

“No reason, really, you just sounded a bit...I dunno, contemplative, I guess. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Gregory, I am sure. I am just...tired.”

“S’fine, it was a long drive.” 

They ate in almost silence, the steak and ale pie done to perfection. Greg had put the radio on and they listened to it as they ate, entertained by Sondheim and Porter, Rodgers and Hammerstein. Mycroft was slightly disturbed by the silence between them though, despite the music. Greg remained a little quieter than normal. They retired early, Greg suggesting they ought to because they were both tired from the journey. Mycroft made no complaint, but went to bed in a vaguely unsettled state of mind. 

They managed a trip to Oban the following day, stocking up on fresh supplies again. Greg insisted on a fish and chip lunch and they bought a haggis from the local butcher as well as two aberdeen angus steaks and some mince for bolognese. Walking the harbour side, dodging the sea gulls, Mycroft pointed out some smaller black birds that he did not recognise. “Black Guillemots,” Greg supplied. “They nest around here. Oban’s a spot they come to frequently.” 

“Never seen them before,” Mycroft confessed. “What other secrets does this town hold?”

“Couple of decent bands, a couple of castles, a falconry center, an ancient breeds park, ferries to the Islands, and a cat called Parsley.”

“Pardon? Did I hear you correctly? A cat? Called Parsley*?”

“Yeah, he’s kind of an ambassador cat. He’s a Main Coon, big orange lump who enjoys wandering, meeting visitors, you know, generally doing cat stuff…”

“We did not meet him last year?”

“Nope, he’s not always around and it was pretty bad weather last year. His owners probably kept him in. Has a social media following and everything. They run the One Cat Cafe where he lives.”

Mycroft smiled. “Maybe we should pay him a visit before we leave for home.”

“Probably when Anders isn’t with us or it might get ugly. Parsley’s been known to duff up the canine opposition on occasion.”

“A very good point, Gregory.”

The two men sauntered through the town, along the way picking up some things from a hardware store to allow Greg to effect some repairs on their return home. All seemed back to normal between them, and Mycroft put it down to tiredness from the long drive. They stopped to buy some fresh pastries, then motored along home. It was nice not to rush, or be needed anywhere.

By the time they got back, the light was waning, so Greg put the repairs off until the following morning. They spent the evening contentedly listening to Friday Night is Music Night on the radio, while Greg worked on his book. Greg went to bed first though, leaving Mycroft to do the final nightly checks, and was asleep before Mycroft slid between the sheets an hour later. 

Bright and early the next morning, Greg went about working on the small repairs around the cottage. Mycroft woke to an empty bed, but he could hear distant hammering and the metallic scrape of a ladder on the wall outside. Mycroft dozed for a while, then took his time getting up, taking a leisurely shower before finally emerging clad in a pair of green corduroy trousers and a thick aran sweater. He made tea and toast, and then on impulse scrambled a few eggs. He laid the table and set out the food, then called through the small window for Greg to come eat. 

“Greg, food is on the table. Can you pause in your work?”

There was a muffled thudding, and then Greg appeared at the door, flushed and happy, setting his hammer down on the floor before heading to the sink to wash up. He sat down at the table opposite Mycroft and admired the food appreciatively. “You made me breakfast,” he said, grinning.

“You know it is within my capabilities, Gregory. I am not without culinary skills and it is hardly the first time.”

“No, I know, but...you made me breakfast. We’re on holiday, it’s snowing, and you made me breakfast. Think I’m in Heaven.”

“Snowing? Already? The weathermen got it wrong then?”

“Not exactly, it’s very light. Hardly there in fact. I’m going to put the car under cover after this though. I’ve a feeling there’s more on the way soon.”

After their meal, Greg made sure their car was undercover in the small garage they’d had built on the end of the cottage a few months prior. It had been an improvement Greg had been meaning to make for years but his ex-wife had never wanted him to waste money on the place. Mycroft had insisted on paying, and now there was a sturdy stone-built garage-cum-shed that complemented the existing walls of the cottage while providing excellent shelter for their vehicle and more storage than the previous utility room that had now been encompassed into the garage space. Even with the car inside it still provided both storage and workshop space for Greg to work. 

Mycroft lent Greg a hand to finish the repairs, holding tools and handing over screws and nails. They worked companionably but the light again went quickly, dark clouds gathering before they had finished. 

“Here it comes,” Greg said, gazing up a the sky. “If we don’t have snow tonight, I’m not a Lestrade.”

“Or descended from the honourable line of Frasers,” Mycroft added. “The forecast said we were in for a few inches.”

“That’s relative,” Greg said. “Up here, a few inches can mean drifts six foot deep against the walls and across the roads. The wind will see to that.”

Sure enough, some time after dinner that evening they both heard the wind getting up, hitting the sidewall of the building with some force. Greg looked through the drawn curtains to see snow flurrying past. “There we are,” he said. “Kinda reminds me of last year.” 

“I would rather forget last year,” Mycroft admitted, “bar for the one fact that it brought us together. I still feel rather foolish…”

“No need, love. Anybody could have lost control of their car in conditions like these.”

“Other people, Gregory, not me,” Mycroft said, stiffly. “I spend my life maintaining control over my environment, and it does not sit well with me that I lost that. Slips like that can be fatal. Do not for a moment think I do not know and understand that I might have died…”

“Yet you didn’t. You’re here, now, and you should let it go, love.” Mycroft gazed at him silently. “Last year, you were reeling from what happened to your sister, and you were not thinking straight. I cannot imagine the man looking at me now would fall into that trap again. You are not the man you were last year, love. You’re more focused, sharper. Back to your old self, but...a cut above, just _better_.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Hell, yes. I know you. You’re Mycroft Holmes, and you’re King of the World.”

“You’re a joker…”

“Your Jester perhaps?” Greg suggested. “Gregory Lestrade, King of Jesters, and Jester of Kings.” He flourished a bow and Mycroft smiled.

“The Chalice from the Palace has the brew that is true?” Mycroft suggested.

“And the Vessel with the pestle has the pellet with the poison?” 

“No, no, Gregory, The flagon with the dragon has the pellet with the poison…” Both men chuckled over the shared joke of one of their favourite films. 

“I think we need that one on the playlist, hm?”

“Definitely. You are my Court Jester, after all.”

**000000000000000**

Sure enough, the following morning dawned very bright as the snow reflected the sunlight. White drifts covered everything, despite not being particularly deep, and the weather report suggested that it was here to stay with more on the way at week’s end. Greg grinned, and went about clearing the path at the front of the cottage. More snow fell before he had finished, and he retreated into the warmth of the living space, shedding his jacket and shaking out his hair. He grabbed a towel from the linen pile and applied it vigorously to his head, leaving his hair in unruly spikes. He came over to sit by the wood burner, where Mycroft supplied him with hot cocoa. 

“So, here we are,” Mycroft said, taking the seat opposite. “Snowed in again. Dear me. However will we cope?”

Greg laughed. “I just hope nobody wants you to save the world in the next few days.”

“The world will just have to wait,” Mycroft said, sipping his own cocoa. “The apocalypse will have to be put on hold until I get back. I dare say if they’re really desperate, my brother might make a half-decent stand-in.”

“Needs must, as they say?”

“Precisely.” Mycroft chuckled. “Although Anthea is taking more responsibility these days. I think she might cope excellently.” He’d not felt this light and happy for a long time; amusing banter with his beloved man, enforced inability to travel far or contact the real world, good home-cooked food, beautiful scenery, a decent bed, and lots of sex… _Has life ever been this good? Can it get any better?_ He ruthlessly suppressed thoughts of things going the wrong way, and tried to relax into the feelings bubbling up through him. Mycroft let his mind drift to his plans for their stay. His stomach flipped a little again. A whole month, with Gregory… He hoped everything would go according to plan. Their anniversary was tomorrow and he was...very hopeful. 

**00000000000000**

He woke early, padding on bare feet to the window, peering out to see snow everywhere. More had followed the first fall until the drifts lay thick around them. They were able to leave the cottage but it would be some time before they were driving anywhere. Walking or skiing were their only options from now on. Greg had urged that they take care though, as medical help would have difficulty reaching them, not to mention that getting any kind of decent mobile signal was next to impossible, but Mycroft had insisted they attempt some kind of walk. “Perhaps close to home?” he had suggested, the previous evening as they discussed what they were going to do. Greg had relented and agreed to that, but made him promise not to take any risks. 

“Don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, but I’d rather not have to get you back down off the hills with a twisted ankle…”

“I will take care, Gregory. I promise you. As will you, I have no doubt.” Greg had smiled and nodded, satisfied. 

Mycroft left Greg in bed, snoring gently. Throwing on his thick robe, he padded to the Aga, setting a kettle to boil and beginning breakfast. He had Gregory’s present in his case, and he was hoping he could persuade the man into the walk they had talked about after breakfast.

Greg roused to the smell of bacon, and moments later, Mycroft shouldered the door open and presented his love with breakfast in bed. 

“Oh, Mycroft...I was going to do that for you…” “I apologise, Gregory. I have been waiting to do this for months. Indulge me, my dear. I really want to spoil you today.”

Happy anniversary, love.”

“And the same to you, my heart. Here you are.” Mycroft sat the tray across Greg’s knees.

“This is amazing. Thank you, Myc.” 

Mycroft sipped his coffee and smiled indulgently. “I was hoping you would consider showing me the route we took the first time you took me up to see the glen?”

“Yeah, we can do that.” Greg ate for a while in silence. 

“I...um...I bought you something.”

“Got you something as well, arranged it weeks ago, but I admit I forgot about the date until the last minute. I’m a bad man, Myc. When you reminded me, a week ago, I realised I’d lost track of what date it was.” 

“You have been busy. I know you’ve been taking more shifts on at work.”

“Yeah. My promotion to DCI is pending…”

“Actually...it isn’t pending anymore,” Mycroft said softly. “Here.” He retrieved an envelope from his briefcase, and handed it over. Greg turned it, examining the Metropolitan Police logo embossed on it, curiosity etched across his features. Opening it, he scanned the contents quickly, then looked at Mycroft with wide eyes. It was the ratification of his promotion. He’d been successful.

“Fucketty fucking fuck,” he murmured, reading the contents again. “Hang on, how come you get to give me this?”

“I...pulled a few strings and requested that I might be given the privilege,” Mycroft explained. “Your Chief Super was very accommodating.”

“Damn me...Mycroft…” Greg paused, a troubled frown on his face. “Tell me, you didn’t have anything to do with this?” he asked awkwardly. 

“Definitely not. I can assure you of that,” Mycroft said firmly, quick to reassure. “My involvement stretched no further than being the one to tell you, I did not influence your elevation in rank.”

“If you had, I’d never find out anyway, would I?”

“Seriously, Gregory, I know how proud you are of your achievements. Perhaps a word in the right ear set the wheels in motion, but beyond that, your achievement is deserved, and your own. If I suggested your promotion was overdue, it is merely because you should have risen much earlier than this. I lay the fault of that at my brother’s door. However, I did not influence your hard work, your experience, your test results, your arrest record…”

“Sherlock might have had something to do with that.”

“I sincerely doubt it. Sherlock works fast, he gives you time. I am more than confident that you could get to the bottom of your cases without his help. You were already detective inspector before you allowed him on cases. After all, you are far from being the idiot he makes you out to be, but where time-sensitive cases, such as serial killers, are involved, Sherlock merely shortens the investigative time, allowing early apprehension of the perpetrator.”

“Thanks, I think. Nice to know you have faith in me.”

Mycroft smiled. “It’s not a question of faith. I am surrounded by goldfish, Gregory. Everybody around me is slower, duller, so much so they seem witless. My IQ, like Sherlock’s, is high enough that other people seem slow, stupid, unable to form even the most basic of conclusions. You, however, are different. I have spent my life surrounding myself with tolerably fast thinkers, people with fast reactions, people who are intelligent and intellectual enough to not cause me to tear my hair out in frustration. Yet with you, I feel...at home. Safe. Loved. You are never boring, always forthright…” Mycroft fixed Greg with a look, one eyebrow raised, “...mostly honest…” he said, which raised a laugh from his partner, “...and you are insanely handsome. You are intelligent, intellectual even, and quite a quick thinker, and given what I have just said, consider that the highest praise I can offer.”

“Patronising bastard,” Greg growled, but he was smiling. 

“Your patronising bastard,” Mycroft countered, and was met with a kiss. 

They dressed warmly, Greg equipping himself with his camera, on a tripod (also a Christmas present from Mycroft) and a rucksack of supplies for their walk. He had packed a thermos of coffee, energy bars and a small first aid kit. The snow wasn’t too deep as they struck out up the lane to the view point. The day was dry and clear, the sky blue. Mycroft found himself experiencing a new sensation as they walked, one which he was loath to admit but couldn’t ignore. The sensation increased the closer they got to their goal. He began to catalogue the symptoms; dry mouth, an uncomfortable clammy sensation under his collar, a weakness of the knees, a tremor in his hands. A shutter going off made him jump. Greg was grinning at him over the top of his camera, seemingly oblivious to his nervous state. 

“You can see for miles today,” the cheerful man observed, staring off into the distance. Beside him, Mycroft cast a wary glance at his partner. Something about his manner seemed a little forced.

“Truly, a..a wonderful place. Gregory...I…” Mycroft faltered, words dying on his lips. 

“What, love?” Greg turned to him, but Mycroft looked away and stared straight ahead.

“It is...truly breathtaking.” 

Greg smiled. “You old romantic.”

“Pft, I am nothing of the sort…”

“I beg to differ.” 

“I am sure you do.”

“Mycroft, I’m sorry if I’ve not been...well, the perfect housemate…I...I know I have rough edges…”

“Gregory, stop. Of course we have had... _teething troubles,_ as it were, that was bound to happen, but you have been…”

“Crass? Irritating? Leaving my filthy socks all over, not putting my magazines away, not emptying the waste bins…”

“Gregory, I...I know we have had our….differences, that is true, but...quite honestly, I would be…” Mycroft took a shaky breath. The nerves returned full force.

Greg sighed. “Better off without me, I know…” Greg murmured softly, regretfully. “I am really sorry, love.”

“No...please…”

“Look, Mycroft, I have loved living with you, you know that? It’s been the best time, but...if you want to call it a day, if it’s too much...I wouldn’t blame you, you know. I’d be sad, of course, but…”

“Gregory, please...I understand it has cost you to accomodate me over these past weeks. I am not the easiest man to live with. Sherlock will attest to that, at length and bitterly, I can assure you.”

“Do we make a good team, though?”

“I’m sure we do. Yes,” Mycroft agreed. 

“Sure? I mean...dunno what you see in me sometimes. I’m not wealthy, I’m not the most diplomatic of people, I’m not an aficionado of opera or classical music and sometimes art leaves me cold…”

“Gregory, you are...you. I would not wish for you to be something you are not.” 

“You’d be…”

“...lost without you now,” Mycroft interrupted, finally meeting Greg’s eyes.

“You would? I...I mean...Mycroft…” 

Swallowing his nerves, tugging off his gloves, Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out a small box. He dropped on one knee in the snow before he could change his mind, in full view of the glen, the open sky and the rolling hills. “I mean it, Gregory Lestrade. I would be lost without you and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days with you. Please, consent to be my husband? Marry me?” And just like that, one year to the day since Mycroft Holmes had promised himself he would do this, he looked up to see tears shining in Greg’s eyes, but he was smiling. He held out a shaking hand. Mycroft carefully took the ring from the box and slid it onto Greg’s finger. A sudden cry split the air and both men looked up. Wheeling above them, an eagle flew high, circling on the updrafts. Caught in the moment, unable to speak, Greg drew his lover to his feet and hugged him hard, planting a kiss on Mycroft’s lips to seal the promise. 

“Course I’ll marry you, love,” he growled, voice gruff with emotion. “I adore you.”

“I adore you too, love you to the moon and back, Darling.”

“Actually I have something for you as well, but you kinda stole my thunder there.” Greg reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Mycroft took his turn to read the contents. It was obviously a legal document of some sort. When Mycroft saw the address, he realised it was the deed to Greg’s cottage. With a shock, Mycroft realised his name had been added to the ownership details. “What have you done?”

“I have added you to this place’s history, Mycroft. You are part owner of this place now. With me. Us. It’s ours, not just mine.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Mr Holmes-Lestrade…” Greg grabbed him for another hug. “Detective Chief Inspector Holmes-Lestrade. Has a nice ring to it. This is seriously the best day of my life, and here I thought you were having second thoughts.”

“I know, and I am sorry. I was...nervous. I am _never_ nervous, Gregory. I have faced down the PM, I have had audiences with Her Majesty, I have dealt with foreign envoys and trade delegations and the CIA...and you manage to reduce me to schoolboy nerves…” Mycroft shook his head. “Only you, Gregory.”

“Told you that you were a romantic.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “We all have our flaws, it seems.”

Greg chuckled. “Come on then, we have photos to take. I am not letting this moment pass without a record.” Mycroft allowed himself to be tugged close for a selfie, and Greg made sure the glen was behind them, in all its glory. _Our glen now,_ Mycroft thought, gazing at the remarkable man beside him. _My fiance,_ he thought, a part of him incredulous at his own audacity. Greg glanced at him and they both paused, lost in each other’s gaze for a moment. Like the glen, their future lay before them, beckoning for them to explore. _And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,_ Mycroft thought, taking Greg’s hand and holding fast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following, thanks for all the comments. Hope you've enjoyed the series.


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